


This soul that is so rightfully mine

by risinggreatness



Series: Circle 'round the sun [68]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risinggreatness/pseuds/risinggreatness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Until death do us part (or reunite), weddings in a galaxy far, far away (not EU compliant)</p>
            </blockquote>





	This soul that is so rightfully mine

Everything catches in his throat at once. Breath and words can no longer escape his lips.

Padmé pinks under his gaze, “It’s not too much, is it?”

Naboo’s gentle sun hangs low over the mountains. The last of its rays paint the sky in golden hues; the water fracturing them as its waves break on the shore. In the glittering sunset, dressed in white lace and a heavily beaded veil covering her brown curls, Padmé stands out.

It’s perfect – she’s perfect.

Gradually, mouth agape, he shakes his head.

“Anakin, you’re staring like a gooberfish,” she laughs.

Waking from his dream-like trance, “Where’d you find a wedding dress?” There’s no way she could have gotten one made up in so short a time nor could she risk being seen purchasing one.

“It was my mother’s.”

Either tears glisten in her eyes or the dying sunlight makes them sparkle. It is important to her, as it was they be married by the Brotherhood of Cognizance, thus it is important to him.

He feels a twinge of regret there is nothing he can tender to their wedding. He has no cherished family heirlooms or faith traditions. He has only himself to offer. ( _He is enough for her._ )

As he did nearly a decade ago for his mom, Anakin holds an arm out to Padmé.

The pontifex waits.

\----------

They seem to float back to the house. Padmé knows they must have walked, but she doesn’t recall the pontifex leaving or coming away from the waterside. Everything else melts into the night, everything save Anakin.

She leads him to the master bedroom and crossing the threshold she is no longer a blushing bride. She wants him wholly, helping him remove the heavy, brown cloak and tunic. His clothes fall in a heap.

Anakin is more tentative about undressing her. He reaches out his right arm habitually, pausing in hesitance. Metal fingers curl into his artificial hand, fearful of the mechanics snagging the embroidery.

Padmé considers telling him there’s no need to act so delicately until she remembers what she is wearing. She suddenly regrets the choice of her mother’s gown. Any of her dresses would have done just as well; she would have cared less if they were torn or tossed aside in exuberance.

“Let me,” she says and loosens the ties trapping her in the folds of the past.

As she struggles, tresses of her hair fall in her face and the weight on her head is lifted. Anakin lays the veil on the dressing table.

She stops tugging at the lacing and waits for her husband to turn around.

Ties loosened, the dress slips off easily. It falls in another heap next to his.

They come together – explore each other in ways they didn’t dare before. It is floating. ( _It is soaring._ ) Beneath the surface, Padmé opens her eyes. ( _From the skies, Anakin discovers new systems._ )

Padmé recognizes the lurch in her stomach and the pumping of her blood as the same as when Anakin flies. ( _Anakin plunges into the depths of a sea; no need for a push this time, Padmé takes his hand and jumps with him._ )

\----------

She fingers the wiry, white hairs on his chin. He does not look so old to her.

( _What does it matter that he is?_ )

Satine leans forward and kisses Obi-Wan.

\----------

They find a solitary tree and lay in its shade.

Clouds and stars pass overhead; they remain.

Soft, white hands trace rough, old palms; their coarseness lessens as they are caressed. Satine hums lightly as she does.

The warmth of her body next to his contents Obi-Wan.

A perfect dream is realized.

\----------

She twists on the spot to examine the gown from other angles. It doesn’t seem to fit, no matter which way she turns.

Leia stares down the mirror. The figure reflected back is not her. Sure, the person in the looking glass has her face, her eyes, her hair, but she’s a far cry from anything Leia has ever been.

A low whistle signals Han’s entrance to the room.

“Is that what I’ll get to tear off you on our wedding night? Because you should have saved yourself the credits.”

“No. I don’t think it is.”

Her voice must betray some disappointment because Han immediately drops the mocking tone. His whole demeanor changes; crossed arms and slouched posture are suddenly embracing and protective.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

He holds her from behind, placing one hand on her upper arm steadying and the other on her stomach worried, speaking to her through the mirrored versions of themselves.

“Nothing’s happened. It’s just –” she gestures to the dress she thought she would wear to save her the trouble of buying or having one made in the short amount of time they have.

Han’s eyes flick from her face to the dress, really looking at it this time, without the intention of making a bad joke at her expense.

“Looks old,” he says finally.

“I expect it is. I found it at the house on Naboo. It must have been my mother’s.”

But it looks older than that. The more Leia considers it, the more she realizes Padmé Amidala must have had even less time than she does to have a wedding dress made, let alone one as beautifully crafted as this. Perhaps it was _her_ mother’s – Leia’s grandmother.

She must have been silent too long, for Han asks into the crook of her neck, “How come you don’t want to wear it?”

“It’s a little too much,” is her lame excuse. “Given we’re on the brink of war and the instance this be a traditional Alderaanian ceremony, I’m not sure it would be appropriate – too elaborate, too much Nubian detail in the design.”

Han squints at her unconvinced.

“And?” he leads her on.

“And I’m not sure it’s me under all this.”

The lace and the beading and the embroidery, it’s all too much for Leia. She’s never been one for the overly-ornate or the eye-catching. When she meets Han at the altar she would rather it be her there and not the mirror version currently staring back at her.

He nods and she’s doesn’t need to say anymore; he understands.

Leia looks in the mirror and, for the first time since she put it on, doesn’t see the dress. She sees Han and herself – together.

It is not a perfect image of them, but, even in the reflection, Leia is more assured they are meant to be, more than she was meant to wear the dress.

Feeling herself again, Leia drops her voice seductively, “How would you like to take this off me now?”

The dress is draped on the back of a chair and they fall into bed. ( _She’ll have to add ‘find a dress’ onto her to-do list, alongside ‘convince the consular to make it a closed ceremony.’_ )

\----------

Leia doesn’t chuckle when his vows begin, “I know,” in response to the end of hers, though the rest of the congregation does.

Of course, he has more to say, but it’s not as long or as eloquent hers. He stumbles through and forgets a good deal of what he planned to say. He would feel like a fool if it was anyone but Leia kneeling opposite him.

The rest of the ceremony goes without a hitch. Alderaan’s appeased, all their customs and traditions observed, but it is a closed ceremony. Although they couldn’t very well eliminate all officials and dignitaries from the guest list, it is mostly people they want there.

A cork pops in Han’s ear and a cheer erupts through the room.

Luke stands ( _as the ‘Hero of Yavin,’ not as Leia’s brother_ ) to give the speech he and Chewie prepared.

“If the Empire had managed to infiltrate Alliance headquarters, I’m sure they would have thought we were about to tear ourselves apart, based solely on the bickering between these two. And Chewie and I, having been there from the start, can tell you it didn’t start in the CIC. Their flirtatious squabbling began the moment they met.”

It is a well-worn story, but Han can’t fault Luke and Chewie for wanting to tell it again. Their escape from the Death Star was anything but Han’s finest moment; he realizes now how it was the start of something bigger for all of them.

He throws an arm around Leia, sitting next to him, and listens to Luke tell of their adventures with the occasional interjection by Chewie. She settles into him, and they laugh together at their youthful stupidity.

Luke goes on. His words grow more loving and sentimental as their relationship grows from the initial spitting friendly fire to the more recent, tender days of peace.

“There’s one question Chewie and I having been dying to ask you, Han.”

“Fire away, Red Five.”

“Was the reward worth it?”

Han could kill them for the smug looks across their faces. To prevent himself from committing murder at his own wedding, he looks down at Leia, tucked under his arm.

She’s beaming.

“Well more than I could have imagined.”

The more rowdy members of the crowd ( _probably prompted by Lando_ ) whoop enthusiastically as Leia plants a firm kiss on his mouth, completely unashamed in front of the statesmen, who, by all accounts, have no business being at this reception.

“And you’re braver than I thought.”

They deepen the kiss; the cheers grow louder.

Their plates are removed and the crowd begins to mingle, moving about from table to table, their undivided attention removed from the bride and groom. Well-wishers come up to the high table to congratulate them.

An older general, one neither of them invited, inappropriately reminds Han of his impending departure for Mandalore.

His blissful ( _partially champagne-induced_ ) mood sours.

Leia reaches for his hand, a silver promise ring now banded around one of his fingers; a matching one is worn on hers.

“Don’t think about it tonight.”

Tonight is for them, not for regrets. And later that night, much later, there is nothing to regret.

\----------

Though it is not the first Jedi wedding since the establishment of the New Order, news of their engagement causes a stir. There is an uproar of those who claim no interest in the Jedi Code, obsolete or renewed.

Luke manages to dodge their ire for the first week, lying in bed next to Mara, both recovering from the chill that set in their bones after escaping the flooded cave. Mara is up faster than him, fighting off the condemnations of their match, alone.

His sick days are a lot less fun once she is on her feet again. Alone, Luke mostly sleeps. He can’t remember ever spending so much time in bed.

He says as much to Mara as she readies herself one morning. She grins and quips maybe he’ll stop rising so early. Then she presses her lips to his forehead and leaves, “No more kisses until you’re better, farmboy and help me deflect some of these critics.”

Ahsoka visits in the early afternoon, “No chance you’d consider not getting married just to shut them up?”

If it is possible, while his nose is clogged and his breathing is raspy, Luke shoots her an unamused look.

“I didn’t think so.”

“We can’t move the Order forward if people expect us to cling to the broken doctrines of the Jedi Code.” He rubs his hands over his face, frustrated, “Why is this suddenly an issue?”

Ahsoka shakes her head, “Change is scary enough as it is and now the most public figure of the New Order is taking part in said changes. People are going to react poorly.”

Luke snorts.

If the galaxy knew half the truth of his life, they wouldn’t care so much about him staying within parameters of the rules he helped lay down.

As it stands, Anakin Skywalker broke the Jedi Code and the galaxy accepts it, for the sole reason his disobedience resulted in the Rebellion’s Hero.

“I hope that’s not how you plan to respond to your critics.”

“They didn’t want a say, now they don’t have one.”

It’s a harsher outlook than Luke is used to having, maybe it’s the subject they’re choosing to fight him on, or maybe he’s just tired from being sick, but this is not a fight he wants a part of. This is not a fight they should be having.

Mara comes back late; Ahsoka’s gone by the time she arrives. Luke sits in contemplation.

“Is it possible that you look worse than this morning?”

“Not when I’ve been thinking about our situation all afternoon.”

She mouths a knowing ‘oh’ and sits on the edge of the bed, “So far I’ve found ignoring it helps with the headache.”

“That helps?”

“More than you might think.” Mara stretches out a hand to him across the sheets.

Luke takes it, smiling, “As long as we’re ignoring things people are saying, how about a proper ‘hello’?”

She snatches her hand away, but laughing says, “Luke Skywalker, you are not going to make me sick again.”

Later, Mara crawls into bed with him and they turn on the rarely used holo projector. Neither of them pays attention to it. Luke rests his head on her shoulder; he drifts off to the dim sound of the holo program and the steady rise and fall of Mara’s breathing.

He’s not sure exactly when he stopped being able to live without her – how it got to the point where now he takes even minor threats seriously.

Mara’s probably right: he should just ignore them like a bad holo serial.

\----------

As the day gets closer and in contrast to the Jedi of the old regime, the New Republic and Order are ecstatic about the wedding of their hero.

The Alliance shouts the news to the furthest reaches of the galaxy. The restoration of the Temple is completed and decorated for the occasion. Han, Chewie, Lando, and Rogue Squadron steal Luke away one night and return him hungover, thankfully not sick.

It’s amusing to watch Luke squirm under all the attention, but Mara can’t help feeling she’s fallen by the wayside.

It’s not his fault. Gods, no. At times it seems he’s the only one who remembers it’s _their_ day, not _his_ day. He does everything in his power to make sure her requests are seen to.

“They can celebrate all they want, but they’re not coming,” he assures her. For all the pomp and circumstance he is given, Luke wants a private ceremony just as much as she does. They agree: members of the Order and select significant others only.

Still, his guest list outstrips hers, a list of people Mara’s not even sure will come. A fact that doesn’t bother her until Luke points it out.

She’s spent most of her life on her own, who does she have to invite to a wedding anyway?

It’s unexpected when the seats on her side of the aisle are completely filled. They are mostly occupied by members of the Order, but the faces in the front rows have never seen inside the walls of the Temple, the crew of _Wild Karrde_ all in attendance.

“Your Skywalker is going to owe me another favor.”

“I think this counts as you fulfilling a favor to me.”

Karrde shakes his head, “I’m missing an opportunity to make a lot of credits in order to be here, but it was Skywalker who called it in, not you.”

It’s almost heartwarming.

“Has Luke filled any of those debts?”

He shrugs, “Not yet. I’m sure you’ll make sure he does.”

Mara laughs, dispelling nerves she didn’t know she had.

“You know, I almost regret sending you with him on that first mission.”

“I thought you were playing a joke on me.”

“I was. Only now the joke’s on me because you’re getting married and I’m short a decent lieutenant.”

They aren’t close enough for Mara to consider Karrde family, but as his lieutenant they were equals. They are friends ( _a word Mara has steadily grown more comfortable using_ ). Still, she can’t believe Luke went through the trouble of making sure someone would be here for her.

At the altar, Mara expresses her thanks in the best way she can: she makes Luke hers for good.

**Author's Note:**

> See author bio for discussion on this 'verse.


End file.
